


with you by my side

by sospes



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And what is the new King Under the Mountain without the brother he needs more than life itself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	with you by my side

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on _The Hobbit_ kink meme on LJ.

Thorin’s eyes are glazed and blank under the winter sky. The fur around his neck is matted with blood; his shirt is stained crimson. He was pierced by half a dozen spears before he fell, but he did fall, in the end, crumpled and small at their feet in the mud and blood of battle. 

Fili sits numbly and watches as Gandalf closes Thorin’s eyes for the last time. He can feel blood still drying on his face, some red, most black, but he doesn’t care enough to wipe it away: his hands are shaking. He’d thought Thorin would never die, could never die – and he doesn’t think about how, if Kili hadn’t been there to haul him back with a cry as orc arrows poured down from above, he would be lying beside his uncle right now, glassy-eyed and lost to this world. 

He watches as Balin sheds his coat and draws it over Thorin’s still face. His breath hiccups in his throat, his eyes sting with unshed tears: now is not the time for grief. They are dwarves: they mourn their kin in private, deep in the heart of the mountain, not out here before elves and men and the glaring eye of the sun. Fili draws a shaky breath, and he’s so lost in his not-grief that he doesn’t notice his brother’s presence until his hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Kili’s touch is heavy and gentle, and Fili reaches for him instinctively, taking the hand that squeezes his shoulder and entwining their fingers, holding on so tight because he can’t lose him, too. 

There are tears in Kili’s eyes. 

Gloin and Dwalin fashion a bier from spears and battleflags, and they bear Thorin away to Erebor, the kingdom he lost his life for. Bard stops them before they go, places the Arkenstone in Thorin’s curled fingers: the gem’s glow is the most beautiful thing Fili’s ever seen, but it doesn’t move his heart the way he knows it should. He doesn’t move, even as the others follow, Bofur’s mattock dripping blood and dark gore over his shoulder, Bombur’s beard shorn away and stained with filth, and Kili stays with him, standing at his side as the sun crawls down the sky. 

Fili says, “We’ll have to tell mother.” 

Kili doesn’t respond, but he releases Fili’s hand and sits down, slowly and leadenly. They sit shoulder to shoulder and watch the sun set: the sky is stained with Thorin’s blood. 

When Dain comes, night has fallen. His face is shadowed but his bearing upright: he bows to them both, his beard tangled and dirty in the light of the moon. “Fili,” he says, “Kili.” 

Fili stands, feels his brother do the same. His legs are cramped and sore, but he keeps his voice level, meets his kinsman’s eye. “Lord Dain,” he answers, and feels tiredness suddenly sweep through his limbs. He trembles in the cold of the winter night, and abruptly all he wants is to slink back into Erebor and find some quiet corner to curl up with Kili and sleep. 

“I am sorry,” Dain says. His head is unhelmed. “This is not the time, but nonetheless it must be said.” His eyes glimmer darkly, and Fili feels so young under their attention. “Fili,” Dain says, “Thorin is dead, and Erebor lies open once again. The Lonely Mountain needs a King.”

And all of a sudden, Fili feels sick. 

Dain tugs at his forked beard, tucks it back into his belt. “You are Thorin’s successor, Fili,” he says. “His eldest sister-son. Your people need you.” 

Fili licks his lips, finds his voice. He says, “I know.” – because he does, he really does, and it’s a been a thought he’s been refusing to think about since Thorin crashed to the ground at his feet in the midst of battle. At his side, Kili stirs, and Fili can feel his brother looking at him searchingly. He doesn’t return the gaze. 

Dain nods. “Don’t linger out here too long,” he says, and his voice is oddly soft. He pauses, just for a moment, and looks up at the sky. “He was a great man,” he says at length. “He will be missed.” 

Kili knows that more than most. 

Dain leaves them, in the end, and the two brothers stand side by side on the field of battle, bloody-faced and bone-weary. Fili watches the stars, tiny pinpricks of light in the sky, and feels Kili watching him. For a long while they don’t speak, but in the end it’s as if the silence is bursting and Kili finally says, “Fili. Look at me.” Fili does. Kili’s lips are split, and there’s dirt and blood smeared across his cheeks. His nose is crooked at a strange angle, and a handful of hair has been ripped from his scalp. His eyes burn in the darkness, and he says, “I’m with you, brother.” 

Fili’s throat is dry. “I’m not him,” he says, and he can’t stop his voice shaking. “I should have taken the spears for him: this is his place, his role. I’m no king, I’m—”

Kili kisses him, hard and rough. He bites at his lips and clashes their teeth together – and his hands tug at the braids in Fili’s hair, pulling him close and keeping him there. When they break apart there are tears on Kili’s cheeks, and he says again, “I’m with you. Always.”

They stand under the stars with foreheads pressed together and hands twined together, and don’t return to Erebor for a long while. 

Slowly, they rebuild their kingdom. 

Erebor is cleaned from the bottom up, and when the stink of dragon has only just left the halls and the beds are spread once more with rugs and furs and blankets, ambassadors start knocking on the doors. Mirkwood and Gondor, Dale and Lothlorien, the Iron Hills and Rohan: word has spread throughout the word that the Lonely Mountain is occupied once more, and that Thorin Oakenshield’s young sister-son sits upon the throne. 

Fili’s not stupid. He knows what they want. Erebor’s gold, the treasure of his uncle’s people, is under the care of a young dwarf, inexperienced in war and even less so in politics – and as elves promise their eternal support and angle for sole trading rights and men pledge their swords and tell tales of their renowned markets, he knows what they think of him. A child, a patsy. Thorin was a warrior to be respected, but Fili? He’s nothing. 

So he smiles at the dignitaries and hobnobs with the ambassadors, and says, “I will consider your proposal.” 

Sometimes, he goes and sits beside Thorin’s tomb, deep in the bowels of the mountain, and in the light of the Arkenstone, closes his eyes and dozes. He misses his uncle more than he thought he could miss anyone, and in the echoing catacombs below Erebor’s majesty, he whispers, “What do I do?” 

He doesn’t get an answer. 

Bofur proves himself remarkably adept at politicking. He plays music with the elves and drinks with the men, roaring out drinking songs as well as he plucks the harp, all with that flap-eared hat pulled firmly down over his bristly hair. He keeps Fili afloat, guides him through a maze of doublespeak and hidden intentions. When Fili asks him why, all he does is shrug, and say, “I like people. They’re almost as interesting as gold.” 

In fact, the dwarves who used to be Thorin’s company and are now sort of Fili’s form the foundation of Fili’s world. Dwalin won’t allow anyone else near command of the fledgling army, while Balin handles foreign policy, spending hours with maps and ravens and letters of allegiance from far-flung cities. Bombur heads straight to the kitchens (his chicken pie is to die for) and Gloin lords over the forges – and Kili, oh, Kili. Kili is everything. In the months after their uncle’s death he becomes Fili’s shadow, ever present and always ready with a reassuring hand on the shoulder or a quick, desperate, needy fumble in the darkened corridors that wind through the mountain. He keeps the grief and the fear from taking over: he’s Fili’s Arkenstone, now, the blaze in the darkness that keeps him from losing his mind, and slowly, slowly, he becomes a name to be reckoned with. The world respects him, fears him. He is King Under the Mountain as Thorin should be been. 

But Bofur takes Fili aside one day and says, “People are talking. The elves, and the men of Gondor: they see how you are with Kili, they hear rumours, and they don’t like it. It’s not their way.” His eyes are sorry: it’s not something he wants to say. 

“What are you saying?” Fili asks shortly, and remembers _i’m with you, brother_. 

“I’m not saying anything,” Bofur answers, after a moment, “but you’re the king, now.” He doesn’t say any more than that. He doesn’t have to. 

The Lonely Mountain is flourishing again, now, gold pouring forth from her doors and bringing the lands around back to life. More of Durin’s folk arrive at the gates every day: they’re starting to have to dig new living quarters from the stone. It’s more than Thorin ever dreamed – and Fili sits beside his tomb in the darkness of death, and watches the Arkenstone flicker. Thorin died for the Arkenstone. 

The next time Kili goes to lay a hand on his shoulder mid-council, Fili leans away. 

Once, when they were children, Fili was sent away for a few months to spend time with Thorin in the towns of men, to learn how to work metal and how to fight with a sword. Kili was too young, and their mother forbad him to follow his brother. It was the worst few months of Fili’s life, a dark spot in his childhood that he can never quite forget. He still dreams about it, sometimes, remembers the feeling of loss, of separation. Losing Kili, even for that short time, was like losing an arm. 

The next few weeks are worse, because all Fili sees every time he looks at his brother is confusion and anger – and he buries his own hurt, buries it deep down beside the look in Thorin’s eyes as he died, and rules the kingdom he never wanted. The elven ambassador from Lothlorien praises his wisdom, the man from Rohan who smells of horse congratulates him on Erebor’s restored beauty. 

Fili thinks of _i’m with you, always_. 

Ori catches him after supper, touches his arm. His eyes are older, now. “You’ve broken his heart,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t need to. Fili says, “No more than I’ve broken my own.”

His days are full of his people, but his nights are his own. He used to spend them with Kili, wrapped up together in the king’s bed, hidden beneath furs and silks, and in those stolen moments he would need nothing else in the world save his brother’s touch – but now that bed is too big and too empty, and more often than not Fili roams the halls. He never knew this place before they tumbled into the back door, but now he knows its every twist and turn as well as he knows his brother’s body – and he takes pride in it, traces the filigree in the walls, feels the ground rise and fall beneath his feet. 

That night, he goes to the throne room. He dismisses the guards with a soft word and goes to sit upon his throne. The stone is cool beneath his touch, and he’s not clad in brocade and finery, now. A thin shirt and light trousers would be too cold for the winter raging outside, but under the mountain it’s always warm. His feet are bare and his hair unbraided. 

“I seek an audience with the king.” Kili’s voice is tight and broken. He kneels on the step below the throne, looking up as a suppliant, but his lips are set in an angry white line and his eyes are bright with loss. He doesn’t wait for Fili to answer, and says, “I seek an audience with my brother.” 

Fili’s heart hurts. “Kili,” he says, and it’s barely more than a whisper, “don’t.” 

“I would know why you have turned your back on me,” Kili says, unheeding and stiffly formal. “I would know what I have done to offend you so.” 

“Please,” Fili says, and it’s all he can think to say, because politics and outward appearance pale to insignificance in the face of the bright, furious beauty in Kili’s eyes. The hall stretches away around them, and they are so close. “We can’t,” he says, chokes it out. “To the rest of the world, it’s not right. We’re not right. I’m king. I have to protect our people.” 

Kili hands are balled tight. “Do you think Thorin cared what elves and men would have thought when he took Bilbo into his bed?” he asks bitterly. “Do you think if he had lived anyone would have stopped him from ruling with the hobbit at his side?” 

“But he didn’t live,” Fili snaps, “and you are my _brother_.” 

For a moment, they are silent. 

Kili stands, and moves forward. He leaves Fili with barely any space to breathe, leaning his hands on each arm of the throne and dipping his head forward until they’re forehead to forehead. Tension ripples through his body. Fili can taste his brother’s breath, warm and juddering and heavy, and it’s all he can do to not close the distance between them now, to kiss him and hold him tight and never let him go, because fuck politics, this is right. They’re right. They always have been. 

“Kili,” he murmurs, “please. Don’t make this harder for me.” 

Kili kisses him, softly and sweetly and barely anything more than the brush of lips on lips. “My king,” he whispers, and kisses him against, still butterfly-soft. It’s been so long since they touched, and Fili finds himself gripping the throne’s arms in an effort to not just grab Kili and pin him down. His heart is thudding so loud in his ears – and suddenly Kili’s on his knees in front of the throne, his hands warm and heavy on Fili’s thighs, and there’s a dark, needy look in his eyes that Fili can’t look away from. “My king,” Kili says again, and before Fili really knows what’s happening his brother’s hand is inside his trousers and oh, he can’t do this. 

“Kili,” he says, “stop. _Stop._ ” 

And there’s desolation in his brother’s eyes. 

Wordlessly, Kili stands, his face blank, and he turns and he walks away, footsteps echoing in the vast hall. He doesn’t make a sound, not to yell and not to plead: he’s silent, defeated. There’s something in Fili’s heart that whispers _that was your last chance_ – and he thinks about elves and men and Bofur’s unwilling warning, but then he remembers Bilbo at Thorin’s deathbed and the way Kili said _always_ on the silent battlefield, and something in him gives way. 

“Wait,” he says, and it’s more of a croak than a word but Kili comes to a sudden halt, shoulders hunched and tight. “Wait,” Fili says again, stronger, and he’s on his feet and lurching forward, and he feels like he’s drunk. “Kili.”

His brother turns, and his face is as blank as ever but Fili _knows_ him, knows him better than he knows himself, and there’s hope in the darkness of his eyes. Fili’s heart is so loud he can barely think, and he says, “We give our hearts once, brother. You have always had mine.” – and it’s an apology and a plea and a declaration all at once, because this is the one thing they’ve never said, the one thing the name _brother_ has kept them from out of fear. 

“I thought—” Kili stops, doesn’t finish. “Fili,” he says finally, and it’s like coming home. 

And then they’re kissing, Fili’s hands in Kili’s hair, and Kili’s pushing him backward until he stumbles up the steps to the dais and feels his throne against the back of his knees. He has no control now, and Kili spins them round so he’s sat on his brother’s throne and Fili is astride him. Kili’s hands are everywhere, stripping him and sliding purposefully down his back, making his heart swell so much it’s an ache in his chest. 

Fili hasn’t felt so overwhelmed in quite a long time. He groans against his brother’s lips and rips his shirt open so hard buttons ping off to clatter on the stone. Kili laughs as Fili fumbles with his belt, and he forces his fingers into his brother’s mouth, wetting them and trailing dampness down his back, sliding them inside him. Fili goes limp in his brother’s arms, and it’s a good thing Kili had no plans of letting him go anytime soon otherwise he would’ve slid off his own throne. Fili rests his head against his brother’s shoulder, mouthing kisses into his skin, and before long Kili is inside him and _oh_ —

After, Kili brushes his thumb across his brother’s cheek. Fili’s half-asleep, but he thinks he hears him murmur _i love you_ in a voice so quiet and private it could’ve been nothing more than the wind. 

In the morning, the King Under the Mountain receives a party from Lothlorien. Galadriel and Celeborn themselves have travelled to see the Lonely Mountain’s new monarch, and Kili stands at Fili’s shoulder as he greets them in state. Bofur’s quiet smile is enough to set Fili’s stomach at ease, because what does he care what stuffy elves and childish men think of him? Kili touches his shoulder as the elven party is ushered in, and Fili feels happier than he’s done for a long time. 

He stands to welcome his guests. Celeborn’s expression is politely curious, but Fili sees Galadriel look thoughtfully between him and his brother with a wry, amused smile on her lips. He flushes even as he welcomes them—he’s heard the stories of the Lady of Lorien as much as anyone else—and when Galadriel looks at him with those bright, piercing eyes, he hears her voice in his head whisper _good luck to you both_. 


End file.
